


fallen

by Annevar44



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:59:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annevar44/pseuds/Annevar44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Falling was so easy. Remaining upright against the constant pull and drag of what lay below -- that was the hard thing. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	fallen

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [падший](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764689) by [Regis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regis/pseuds/Regis)



Valjean, bones aching, dismounted the fiacre. “I will only need a few moments." 

Javert nodded with his face partly turned away. It seemed to Valjean that the inspector's mind was occupied elsewhere - in fact he had not spoken since they'd left the home of M. Gillenormand, and had kept his gaze fixed on the skies. The night was warm, the sky bedded with clouds, and no stars were visible.

"I will wait here," Javert said.

Valjean paused in the entryway with his hand on the door. A great despair fell upon him all it once - for he realized suddenly that he had no idea how to tell Cosette goodbye. He glanced back at the fiacre. It stood in shadow under a stand of trees; he could see neither the Inspector nor the driver.

_I will wait here._

Strange, Valjean thought. That was not like Javert.

Suddenly the driver whipped up his horses. The clap-clatter of hoofbeats followed, and Valjean gaped in amazement, for the fiacre moved away up the street and silence closed in behind it like water rushing to fill a cleft in the sea where a ship's keel has split the waves. His eye picked out another movement: the tall erect figure, so familiar, stepping out of the shadows into the light of the streetlamps and walking slowly, with head down, toward the Seine...

. 

Javert stood on the bridge and considered the tumbling black water below. It would be cold, he supposed. He was not afraid. He welcomed the coming escape from his exhaustion, his bleak thoughts, his flesh seared and branded by the schoolboys' ropes. He was no longer any use to anyone. He swung one leg over the waist-high wall. It would be a quick drop, then something like a thunderclap at impact, then nothing.

Falling was so easy. Remaining upright against the constant pull and drag of what lay below -- that was the hard thing. 

"Javert."

The voice, firm and quiet, spoke from the darkness behind him. He stiffened for an instant. But he reminded himself that that particular voice was not worth listening to, so he ignored it. 

"Javert, no. You must not do this. Please."

It occurred to Javert that any other man might have heard God at such a moment, whereas _he--_ It was humorous, really. He did not turn around, but began painfully hauling his other leg over the wall.

“Another centimeter and I will have to restrain you. I do not think you want that, and I truly hope you will not make it necessary.”

“Let me go,” Javert hissed, although Valjean had not touched him. “You have killed me enough times tonight. At least allow my corpse to find some rest.” The lights along the river cast a watery, greenish glow over the two men. The air itself seemed fluid; it pressed in on Javert, and he found it difficult to get his breath.

“It’s a bad night to make such an irrevocable decision,” Valjean said. “You are not yourself.” 

“You don’t know what you are talking about," Javert snarled. Valjean made no answer. He came to Javert's side and stood leaning out over the wall, very far out, like a fearless man tempting fate. He too stared down into the swirling depths of the Seine.

Javert dragged his leading leg back onto the bridge. Apparently he was condemned to wait out Valjean’s mission of mercy before he would be allowed to escape into oblivion. He hoped the delay would be brief.

"I have always wanted this," Valjean said. "To be alone with you. To talk."

"Oh? We have talked before."

"Have we?"

"Yes. In Montreuil-sur-Mer, when you were called Madeleine. You betrayed me there. You made a fool of me."

"I am sorry. Javert, believe me: I never intended that." His voice, grave and kind, sounded much like the voice of M. Madeleine years ago.

Javert picked up his hat, which he had laid near the wall earlier, and turned it around in his hand. He was tired of talking. He would like to kill himself in peace. This did not seem like a lot to ask.

He raised his eyes and looked at the other man. “I can’t wear this uniform again,” he said, pulling off a trailing wet leaf that had somehow worked its way under his collar. His voice cracked. “I am not even a man anymore since I let you go. I have proven unworthy.” He shouldn’t be saying such things -- least of all to Valjean. He should be, at this moment, hauling the man off to jail. But it was very late and he was tired, so maybe just this once he could be permitted to talk nonsense. He peeled more wet leaves out of his sleeve. It was very quiet suddenly, as if all of Paris were fallen away, and it was just the two of them in a silent world of their own.

“Not unworthy; never that,” said Valjean. “I have always respected you.”

Javert sneered aggressively, since he was not a man to cry. In Montreil he would have given his life to hear those words from the mayor's lips. He had been upright and honest and the mayor had only despised him. Had thought Javert was his enemy, when all Javert had ever wanted was--

But that was long ago. Madeleine was nothing to him now.

Suddenly, the man beside him began to laugh.

“What the devil is so funny?”

“Do you remember-- hah! Do you remember--” Valjean choked and sputtered. “Ha ha! Do you--” Water was now running from his eyes. He overflowed in mirth. 

Javert was too annoyed to be morose. "Stop it!" he snapped. Valjean reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief, but it was useless and sodden: it dripped dark water and Javert recoiled at the sewer-stench. Valjean let it float away into the darkness.

“That night in the Gorbeau tenement-- the criminal Thenardier and his gang -- they had me; I thought the end had come. And then they got the wind up and -- "So you want to draw lots from a hat?" he said -- and then you appeared and-- Hah! You said-- Hah hah!”

Valjean’s knees buckled, gone weak as water, and he laughed and laughed until his cheeks were wet.

He's a madman, Javert thought. Something was caught around his throat - a vine or piece of string -- and he peeled it off. A madman, certainly -- but yes, that _had_ been fun, that night, hadn’t it. Though that devil Thenardier had damn near blown a hole in his chest.

He turned on Valjean with a frown. “I always knew it was you -- the prisoner in the chair.” He shook his head and let loose a low stream of colorful epithets, directed mostly at himself. “I did not want to admit it to myself. I was too angry that I had come so close and let you best me again.”

“They would have killed me, had you not swept in like that. Tonight I must finally thank you.”

“I have no doubt you would have gotten away in some miraculous manner whether I were there or not," Javert said tartly. "You have a knack for narrow escapes.”

“As do you, it would seem.” Valjean shook his head, smiling broadly. “I was halfway out the window when I saw Thenardier aim his pistol at you; you dared him to fire it.”

Yes, Javert thought: that really had been a fine night.

“Come,” Valjean said. “I am not letting you jump, so let's go somewhere comfortable. We have more to talk about but I would like to wash, and rest. Accompany me home. I insist, and as you have no choice you should give in graciously.”

Javert was not particularly gracious. However, one could hardly blame him, as he had been through a lot.

They found themselves on the Rue Plumet. The house was dark and shuttered. In the sitting room, Valjean lit a lamp. Javert calculated it would not be long til sunrise.

“Rest,” Valjean said, indicating the chair by the fireplace. He poked at the logs and a fire sprang up. Javert sank down and let the murky silence wrap him in its wet arms. “I will draw a bath,” Valjean said. “For myself first -- and then you, if you have need.” Javert grunted. What the devil had he come to, that he was sharing the hospitality of a damnable convict? His thoughts were slow and thick as congealed soup. Then heat began to soak through him, and his lids grew heavy.

It was still dark and the grate was cold when he flickered back into consciousness. A strong hand gripped his shoulder. 

“The bath is ready for you,” Valjean said, “and I have laid out some clothes, should you want to change.”

Javert was darkly troubled at the thought of shedding his uniform. On the other hand, it was stained with shit and blood and he was damned if he was going to leave here in the light of morning and walk the streets in such a state. He muttered that he might just as well get on with it. He rose with difficulty; his limbs were leaden. Valjean buttressed him with an arm around his shoulders.

A single candle lit the washroom. The copper basin was large and steam filled the room. Javert took a step away from Valjean, intending to manage for himself, but his legs betrayed him. Were it not for Valjean's ready strength he would have fallen. “You’ll have to let me help you,” Valjean said.

Javert, a lifetime of inflexible solitude behind him, found it surprisingly easy to give in. 

In the dark of the washroom he could pretend he was alone; if he closed his eyes the illusion was nearly perfect. Valjean worked on the buttons of his greatcoat. It was a relief to be out of it, for the fabric was drenched with blood or muck and dragged at him heavily. He should not be allowing this, but he ached so. He let himself lean against the other man. Why not, when there was no one to see? It was a momentary indulgence of no consequence. Soon enough he would put this night behind him.

Valjean’s hands moved to his trousers and, with gentle care, undid the buttons. Kneeling, he slid his fingers under Javert's waistband and drew his trousers and drawers down together over his thighs. The curling ends of Valjean's hair brushed Javert's bare skin, raising gooseflesh. His clothes pooled at his ankles with a whisper.

“Step into the bath,” Valjean murmured.

The water welcomed Javert. Its warmth enfolded him. Valjean's face, seen through the rising steam, wavered around the edges. 

Valjean sighed and began kneading Javert's knotted muscles: first his naked shoulders, and then lower.

In a choked voice Javert cried, “What are you doing, there?”

Valjean wrapped his arms around Javert from behind, taking him in a secure embrace so his rough cheek pressed against Javert's back. 

Javert said sharply, ”You should not be doing this."

“No?” Valjean asked. A bucket was in his hands, and steaming water cascaded over Javert's chest. "You know, I have been through hell, in my life. It is a strange thing that the man who knows me best is a man I have never even shared a meal with. I wish we had done this long ago. Your soul is troubled, Javert, and I-- I would like to help you if I can.”

"Yes. You are always helping. I've noticed you doing that," Javert said. His words lacked the bitter edge he had intended. The water was warm enough to dull his wits.

"Why the bridge?" Valjean asked.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Tell me."

Javert looked away. His shoulders were again rigid. Valjean stroked the back of his neck. 

“My whole life has been in error," Javert whispered. "You showed me that. May God have mercy on me.”

“On that score, I swear to you, you must not worry,” Valjean said gently. 

Javert started. "What's this?" A weed was floating in the water beside him, and the stem had caught between his fingers.

Valjean smiled and removed it. "From my garden, I expect."

Valjean stroked Javert's back with a rough cloth. After a while the strokes lengthened. He ran the cloth from Javert’s shoulders down to his lower back. On the following stroke he went a little lower, and on the next he reached the rise of Javert’s buttocks. Javert relaxed slowly into Valjean‘s care. Then the cloth was gone, drifting away in the boundless basin, and it was Valjean's bare hand that stroked Javert from his nape down, down to his cleft, then farther.

Javert made a noise between a gasp and a moan.

“Let me take care of you,” Valjean murmured. Javert trembled. “Relax, shhhh -- I will not hurt you. Shhh.” A finger edged towards Javert’s opening, circled round it, and again, and then finally stole up on it and probed gently. This drew a moan from Javert. The finger did not stop, but pressed, released, and pressed again, then returned to describing slow circles that kissed the rim of his most vulnerable place. Valjean's other arm encircled Javert's torso, and that hand slid lower until it met Javert’s cock and palmed the soft length, back and forth. Javert's shaft stiffened. He felt helpless, being assaulted by unpredictable pleasures from both sides.

“My God -- what are you doing to me--?” 

“What you need.”

“No, please--”

Valjean's finger returned to Javert's entrance and pressed harder than before.

“Do not do this--”

“You are not stopping me.” The hands continued their movements. For a long while, no more words were spoken. Then Javert clenched his teeth; his whole body went stiff and he said, "Please-- no more-- I am going to--"

"Let yourself."

Javert wrenched himself away from Valjean's touch, but too late -- his body would not be denied. He gave a long shuddering cry. Then all tension went out of him. He hung his head. In the silence that followed he muttered, "I-- I-- am sorry."

"Shh. I am not sorry. I am glad." 

"By God - I always wanted you to look at me," Javert burst out suddenly. "To know I was a man. In Montreuil-sur-Mer I could not take my eyes off you, it is true." His secret, dense and dank with the shame of ten years' burial, became weightless as it left his lips. It floated like a shred of soap-froth in the steam. 

"I felt the same, but just like you I was afraid to say it. You were a man of justice always: straight and true."

Javert took these words as one takes a fist-strike to the chest. He collapsed forward and sank his face down into his hands. "My God," he sobbed, "if you had only said--"

For a long time, Javert shook and kept his face hidden. Valjean held him. His embrace was strong. He spoke low words in Javert's ear and poured steaming water over him to keep him warm. Javert had stood unyielding against the disappointments of over half a century; but warmth melts glaciers and the caress of moving water, given time enough, can wear down rock. "It will be all right," Valjean murmured over and over. A prayer. A lullaby. 

Finally, Javert's shaking subsided. He looked up at Valjean with brimming, limpid eyes. 

Something like a scrap of newspaper floated up in the basin, and Valjean removed it without a word. Javert passed his hands through his hair. He drew a deep, shaky breath and looked about him. “In the name of the Father,” he muttered finally, "Everything feels new. I don’t know what I am anymore. I cannot seem to think what I should do.”

“Right now you should let me help you into some warm clothes, and then to bed. No, do not argue.”

Javert had no more thought of arguing. Dressed and dried, he followed Valjean as obediently as a child. He lay down in a bed far softer than his own; warm covers were drawn over him. As Valjean stepped away, Javert made a small hungry noise and reached out into the darkness. A moment later a dense, muscular body settled into the bed behind him. Sinewy arms looped around his chest and drew him in.

“Sleep,” said Valjean. Javert nestled closer, and did not resist.

.

Cosette threw her arms around him and he felt a surge of joy and lightness. They clung together in their little sitting-room in the glow of lamplight, just the two of them, he and the daughter of his heart; the entire world was shut out and nothing would ever harm them. "And you are sure Marius will recover? When can I see him? Oh, Papa! And -- and we will not need to leave Paris?"

He stroked her hair. Over her shoulder he could see the window that looked out over the Rue de L'homme Arme. Where the fiacre had stood, the street was still empty. Disquiet touched him, like a wheel turning slowly on a cracked axle.

"But what is it, Papa?"

"It's nothing. Only that -- I am a little tired, and a little worried about someone. But you must go to bed, my child." He smiled down at her. "Sleep."

.

This stretch of the Seine is weedy, the banks half-covered in scrub and a tangle of refuse. Broken cartwheels, a torn burlap sack, stained rags, the sole of a man's workboot, all are joined by creeping vines and lilies at the water's edge. Two boys whom the reader has met before -- the surname is Thenardier, or possibly Gillenormand -- are wandering aimlessly along the shore, kicking at rocks. The sun is nearly up. 

"Have a look -- what's that there?" asks the younger boy, pointing.

A muddied shape lies on the embankment, half in, half out of the water. As they approach their find, it becomes clear it is a man. The buttons of his uniform catch the first rays of dawn light.

"Copper, looks like," says the older boy, brightening. "Let's see if his pockets got anything for us."

Kneeling, he stoops to rifle through the sodden clothes. The man makes no objection. He lies half-curled in a bed of weeds. His face is calm in repose. He resembles a man slumbering, dreaming perhaps that he sleeps forever in his lover's arms.


End file.
